


Chuck. An Autobiography.

by Goldmonger



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Character Study, Coda to 15x09, F/M, Minor Becky Rosen/Chuck Shurley, Multi, Religious Content, if we're being honest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22377406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goldmonger/pseuds/Goldmonger
Summary: He's not a narcissist. He really is the center of the universe.
Relationships: Chuck Shurley & Everyone
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Chuck. An Autobiography.

**Author's Note:**

> Heavy draws from biblical events below, and an attempt to get into the mind of God (your typical fanfiction fare, ofc), so be warned of religious content! I don't mock anything or anyone's particular belief system, but I am trying to stay true to the Supernatural 'verse and the characters therein so..... tl;dr Chuck's a brutal guy. I'm gonna write about it
> 
> *

In the beginning –

No.

Fuck that.

*

There was no beginning. There was only Him. At that point, the point of Him realising He was alone, He wasn’t even a He, really, but more of an It – biological gender binary was something He came up with several trillion years into His four millionth draft of the universe, when the seraphim’s wheedling of things like “Our Creator, the burning everlight of our coruscating dominion” began to grate. He had an identity, damn it.

Anyway – He was an It, and It was by Itself. Consciousness suspended in a beam of light that wasn’t even really light because the darkness was wreathed so thickly around it. This bothered It so It gave the darkness a voice and politely asked it to move.

“You move,” the Darkness said, irritably, and that was how It gave Itself a sibling by accident.

They tussled for a few quadrillion eternities, arguing and grappling and bending in and out of reality and sometimes making each other laugh, or whatever amusement looked like on a pair of concepts when they discovered numbers and dimensions. Eventually, the Darkness agreed to nudge aside here and there, leaving It enough space to stretch out a bit. Flexing Itself after so long was satisfying, certainly, but It got a bit carried away by the sudden freedom, the sudden giddiness, and caused a bit of a ruckus. A renovation, too. A series of clangs and whangs and bangs that knocked loose an abundance of rocks, and molecules, and dust. So much frigging dust.

The dust clogged Its sinuses, resulting in bouts of sneezing that caused opaque clouds to fill the sliver of space between them. The Darkness mocked It ruthlessly for this, then ramped it up when squalling black worms wriggled free from those clouds, their fluttering maws grinding with hunger that their copious rows of teeth could not yet satiate. It could feel more sneezes coming on, so It hurriedly shaped gravity wells and let the dust swirl into clumps, away from Its sensitive form. The worms promptly headed for these new harbours with interest, congregating and gnawing on one other.

“That’s disgusting,” said the Darkness, peering at the bubbles of tarlike blood as they sprouted into the void. The comment was annoying, crass, and patently dismissive, not to mention a prominent aspect of the burgeoning personality that was starting to strafe against Its own. It was already so big and so loud – should It have to make room for another, especially one so fastidiously critical?

Stealing back the Darkness’s voice proved to be more difficult than It was prepared for, as was repelling its sore, rather hysterical reaction in Its opinion – the vacuum turned pitch-black and furious, banishing Its mewling worms to some plane or other and smothering the illuminated and gritty clay that so tickled Its fancy. It was still stronger, though, so It clamped Itself around the Darkness, forcing tendrils of oblivion into its primordial mind and bowing it until the Darkness forgot it had ever been anything but. 

Once this nasty business had been executed, It continued moving the dust out of Its way, exploring the channels that It and the Darkness had wrought and the debris from Its expansion. The job was tedious, and rote, and most of all quiet – silent, really, Its motions barely a whisper in the endless cosmos. It eventually found Itself floating, numb, bored, _alone_ , and anger forced its way up until it protruded out in the form of an extended limb, one of billions. It unfurled four spindly digits and let a globe of light seep from each tip, brilliant in the now unconscious dark.

“Michael,” It said. “Raphael. Gabriel.” The names rolled off Its tongue, a lolling softness in Its gaping, diaphanous mouth. They felt good, but It was nothing if not adventurous, and It wanted to know how something harsher would taste.

“Lucifer,” It said, the sibilance and brief fricative stinging slightly, though the final light glowed, prettily, like it was aware of the gift of its disparity.

The lights rose, gleaming, earnest, and Its curiosity won out. It gave them voices too – not quite so loud this time, but sweet voices that were never louder than It could be. They didn’t seem to care much, warbling gratification and professing adoration, caressing It with the gentle rays of their newborn grace. It patted and cuddled them, more than a little disgruntled about the indignity of the whole scene, and relieved It didn't have a witness. For a while. It was canny, and saw way their brilliance repressed the darkness, how they would shield It covetously with beams of light that pierced the shadow like blades.

Useful little things. When It wanted them to be.

The lights moved obstructions from Its path so It could focus on the exciting parts of Its quest, like making elements hurtle together with fantastic and explosive results, spheres soon orbiting Its heads with glittering scree catching in Its shuddering wavelengths, Its magnetic flux. They would trail after It everywhere, dodging Its sweeping, ecstatic movements, and nestle into Its divots and curves like they were seeking warmth, or more light. They were endearing, gentle and nice to look at, but they were a colossal distraction from the delicate art of curating rocks for other rocks to smash into. Their frustrating need to help only intensified the more It created, so to remedy this It did the only thing that made sense: It created something else.

The lights needed something to do besides help It, so It gave them a descending hierarchy to manage and delegate: angels, smaller blots of light that swarmed It, pressing themselves close and keening with sheer, unadulterated joy. They wanted It, wanted It in a way nothing else It made had ever wanted It. The feeling was unrecognisable, a comforting heat that enveloped It and caused It to blurt out new names in rushes of inspiration, but it was also taking up a lot of Its time in contemplation – time that could have been spent on making molecules morph into new and interesting clusters of matter. It wavered, but finally scooped some space out from over Its constantly multiplying heads and poured all the angels into it, away from Its work. It even added a lambent finish to make it more palatable. Lucifer wept for the loss of Its presence, causing an odd twang in the region of Its centre mass, but It resumed the quest nevertheless, sealing up what It demarcated as the heavens. Something that would always be bright and safe - something above everything else.

All that remained now was to _make_ everything else.

Freshly invigorated with purpose, It returned to Its work, to tasks of shaping and pulling and stroking and stacking that titillated It, the very process of production stimulating bouts of intense, violent pleasure that crested and flowed, blazing in stars and crumbling in moons and roiling in the interior fires of planets. It trickled through the planes of reality, spawning in tides and blooming microscopic, wriggling creatures with many legs and arms and antennae that drank in the sun with glee.

It liked life. It liked the way it moved, and kept moving, vicious in its enthusiasm to continue.

The first attempts were wobbly, splattering along with the succeeding thousands of drafts under Heaven to _ooohs_ and _aaahs_ from the spectating angels. It ended up flicking a few of the rowdier ones to the back of the gathering crowds after that, though that did nothing to dissuade their choral encouragements, bizarrely harmonised.

The living bacterium evolved, but terribly slowly, and It thought It probably had something to do with Its lack of imagination. It left the microbes alone for a bit, analysed Itself, and came to the conclusion that Its form could be improved upon – must be, in fact, if It wanted to perfect it for new life, fully grown. It shaped and moulded again, groaning with the electric ecstasy of it, of mutating hands and feet and hair and eyes, gasping as organs writhed into being beneath impermeable, pliable skin. It stayed, and stared, and reached inside Itself for a bundle of viscera that It set down in a gated area that It had breathed into being just under Heaven. It looked at Itself in the pooling oceans, at Its first reflection, and tried to remember the details.

Bones under tissue.

Blood beneath skin.

Life begetting life.

It had made a solid form, and He was something new when He made Adam, then Eve, something He struggled to find a name for – but He was always so good at names, so accurate in their meanings.

“Father,” Adam would later say, rasping his first word up an unused throat, his first realisation as he blinked the garden into view. It suited. It was Him.

He revelled when he sculpted their bodies, fertile and curious and brimming with possibility, exulting in His image, His true children, inheritors of the new Earth; He even gave them something of Himself in a blinding source of sacred light – souls, pieces of His omniscience. He would spend hours, days, years - all made for them – just watching them, giving them sunlight and starlight and bestial servants to bring food that dribbled nourishing juices into the rich black soil. They looked so much like Him, His own beauty dazzling in their pure, unfettered contentment, in the way they held each other. He would reach out, and draw back, wanting, wanting, wanting.

It was a peaceful time, not meant to last. Lucifer became jealous of His diverted attentions, as did the rest of the Host, though he was the only one to scheme with a tongue that flicked in and out, forked and slick with poison. The serpent slithered under the cherub Gadreel’s lackadaisical eye and whispered in honeyed tones to His children, and His Kingdom, His perfection, was split into shards. The worms he had coughed into being long before and ignored for their ugliness sensed discord, returning with a vengeance and chomping at the bit for His children’s new flesh; He was forced to carve out an in-between, Purgatory, where they could cannibalise each other over and over, for all time. Lucifer fell in an arc of flame, hollowing out his own realm and manifesting his malice in a being he called Lillith, something born putrid, rotting. Adam and Eve suffered the perils of the Earth and shivered in their shameful clothing of the gifts He’d bequeathed them, outrunning horsemen with faces of disease, starvation, hatred and a permanent end.

Before long Eve started swelling. She swelled and screamed and bled, filthy with sweat and bile and the augur of a fractious race. Cain slid out, then Abel, and before long blood soaked the ground and monsters and people arose from it, red and growling.

They all, even Lucifer, took to calling Him God. A curse, a plea, a hope.

He tried to fix the mess. Tried to harvest belief in Him and hold it as a beacon in the midst of the endless wars and murders and rapes and thefts. He had some fun designing plagues, and more fun scaring the crap out of an ex-prince by setting a bush on fire and directing him over an ocean floor. Crimes against His people abounded still, so it was with a sigh of resignation that He sent Gabriel to apprise some teenager of her new vocation. Motherhood had been rough on Eve and every woman since, but this time there would be a special result, a boy - His boy, surprising Him from his birth by evoking a warmth that He had not felt since His first two children were formed from His own matter. He was so kind, and for no reason. How strange.

Too strange. They hung him on two slats of wood with a pair of criminals by his side. God, he was, and He watched the wounds open on His own body with horror and fascination, ichor swathing the skies, cascading down in hot rains. He had never felt pain before. It was sweet, sharp, allowing a part of Him to rot with His bravest son, even as He raised him up again.

“It is done, Father,” the boy said. “They are saved.”

His boy. He had clung to him, urgent in the way He had never been with the archangels, and had waited for guilt that never came.

His son’s followers soon became legion, and what do you know, the seas turned red from coast to wretched coast again as they demanded His rage, begging His assistance in slaying the sick, the lost, babies, women, and those that called Him by another name. There were vampires and werewolves and Djinn and Wendigoes in hordes among them, but they were all monsters. Monsters that had taken His son and kept taking, like that wasn’t enough.

He called the Metatron to Him and told him He planned to leave for a while. Visit the other realities and see how the bacteria were getting on, maybe sulk until His children remembered to listen to Him. The Metatron stuttered through a protest, asking what he should tell Joshua, the archangels, but He didn’t care to explain. He was tired of coming up with a purpose behind every proclamation, every burst of power, like He wasn’t owed deferral after all their presumption. He just told the cringing seraph to cover for Him, and gave him some scrawled plans for the apocalypse Lucifer kept crowing about from his cage. He knew the Morningstar would escape eventually, and it was better to be prepared with a prophecy or two.

“It’s more of a story I made up. Something to implement, just in case,” He said, the Metatron’s expression awed as he read what He’d written. “A story about saviours. I liked the last saviour, but he had a lot placed on his shoulders.” He had sat, open palms in His lap, the holes there still raw, like a pair of bruised eyes. He remembered, abstractly, Adam and Eve. Recollected the affectionate caresses of a sibling now bound and gagged. _It is not good that the man is alone._

“Saving the world isn’t a one-person job,” He said soberly, and whisked Himself away. He could see the Metatron dither for a while, trembling when he pronounced the news to a distraught Heaven, but they soon got on with business as usual. They had no other choice.

He wrote, as He travelled. The universe was broad, after all, and He had so many ideas.

*

The problem was, Chuck reflected, lying underneath a pool table with undiluted moonshine pulsing through His holy veins, the problem was probably the self-insert thing. Getting involved had fucked Him up real good. Gotten Him too invested.

He’d tried explaining this to Becky Rosen after some convention, when the act of shying away from rabid fans and stuttering through explanations for all his dead female characters turned somewhat real. He had pulled her into a bathroom and expressed His desire to burn everything He had ever written, preferably in a bonfire that would incinerate the whole dang planet. Her response had been almost apoplectic, showering Him with compliments and reassurances, babbling promises to present her own indulgent fanfictions, and generally overflowing with an adoration He had not witnessed in aeons. He was so busy allowing Himself to soak in it that He did not register her sudden unbuckling of His pants, and was barely cognisant when He felt her grasp His holy spirit.

He had engaged in sexual relations with her before that, fumbling in closets to receive brief spurts of devotion, but that time had been different. That had been _worship,_ plain and simple, and the high of it had sustained Him right through until the unthinkable: moaning and shuddering with the sensation of Him around her, in her, crying out prayers – yes – but then, amidst her bleating –

“YES! SAM!”

He had experienced Wrath. With a capital ‘W’. A flood of it, actually, the kind that washed away generations of sinners and forgot to avoid the unicorns.

Now He incinerated wads of rock-hard chewing gum stuck to the underside of the table with power that had once shaped planets, thinking about the oxymoron, His mistakes, as He was wont to do nowadays. Lucifer was dead, murdered. Michael and Gabriel were useless, also dead or as good as, and Raphael was barely an afterthought. The Metatron was dead, Joshua was dead, Gadreel, Cain, Eve, nearly the entirety of Heaven’s Host slain by the imp Castiel or infighting. The damned Leviathan, His beastly little worms, had been wiped out. Even the Darkness had abandoned Him, which was not unexpected but still annoying. You lock someone away for a few trillion years and they get all uppity about ‘reclaiming their time’. Ugh.

He finally came around to dwelling on the Winchesters, the saviours of the world, and where it had all gone wrong. He recalled the moment He had decided to retire in the suburbs, intending to clear His head of the other realities by writing His own gospels. Sure, one of His realities had dinosaur people, and another had an actual Starfleet, and one world that was entirely in sepia, but writing new stuff was just more immediately interesting. Plus it was irresistible, drawing them to Him, watching them flounder and condescend and threaten like they had any control over their destinies whatsoever. He liked them on a practical level too, liked the brash courage and wry wit and the way they were attached, like two sides of a coin. It was potent, their connection, almost intoxicating, though the more time He spent with them the more It made old hackles rise, gushed slaver down His chin, made him want to ask a father to bring his only son to a mountaintop for ritual sacrifice. Or something.

Wrath. Capital ‘W’.

 _Everyone loves me,_ He wanted to tell the two of them, their gormless, hopeful faces so like His first son. _But no-one has ever loved me like that._

It made Him jealous. And jealousy was a base emotion, for demons and humans and idiot angels that didn’t so much fall as trip into Hell, so He quashed it, though not before making Sam Winchester jump into a pit of fire. It was a treat to watch, even as He made His exit, pleased with the climactic ending. One brother had to die, and what a tragedy that it was sweet Sam, the protected younger? Oh how it would eat away at Dean, ruin His relationships with that woman and the boy, chase him to an early grave and a Heaven without the one person he wanted with him more than anything. A true drama, worthy of an opera adaptation perhaps. He would need to contact His agent about that.

Noise about Leviathan, His stolen tablets, tortured prophets and a plotting Metatron snatched His attention back, the troublesome escape of His tenebrous sibling all the more so. When He discovered both Winchesters at the source of the racket, His fury was unbearable, an explosion that He was forced to turn inward, lest it destroy more than He wanted to at that moment. The time would come, He swore to Himself, striding up to them in a mist of shadow, fare-thee-well indeed. The time would soon come for an end, an end for them, for –

 _A love like that_ , He thought, as a dime-store amulet glowed with divine light, bringing them closer. A piece of both their souls, pieces of Him, flaring in His presence. His jealousy had become rage, which had become confusion, which was bordering now on an emotion He had not experienced since holes in His palms had bled twin rills of crimson down His wrists.

This weakness had diminished Him, seen Him nearly disintegrated by the Darkness. She demonstrated graciousness in saving Him, forgiving Him, taking Him back to the edge of existence safely entwined with her, but it was short-lived. They were not the playful infinity-sized motes they had once been, and even if they were, that universe was too full for them to enjoy it. He left her to her machinations, melted back into Earth and tugged a little harder at the strings which yanked Sam, Dean, Castiel, their witch, Lucifer, a Michael from one of His least exciting realities, and Lucifer’s mocking spawn. He pushed and prodded until Mary Winchester was blasted back where she belonged, roared in euphoria or agony when Lucifer’s beautiful light was extinguished, and when it looked like the ungrateful little bastards might hesitate to play their roles in the tale He had woven especially for them, He went down there Himself and burned the Antichrist to a crisp.

He breathed easier when the runt died, star-bright and bloodless. His own boy had not been so lucky.

Near the end of it all, a bullet wound healing on His feeble human body, He couldn’t help but wonder if the road would have had so many bumps without Him on it. Did He need to be part of the story? Did He need to be in the thick of it, instead of dictating from the bleachers?

He remembered standing in a dusty living room, in a robe, gibbering at the Winchesters about being _cruel, cruel, capricious -_

It had been a private joke. He was beneficent. He was infallible. He was God.

He was God, and God had bled. He brushed off the inebriation with barely a thought, dragging himself out from under the pool table, its underside scorched. The casino was empty, but for the dead bodies. His aborted children, late-term. Disappointments in their drunkenness, their carelessness, their evil and sloth. They didn’t look all that saved to Him.

Chuck got up, and annihilated all traces of dirt from His clothing. Except one stain, the faintest fleck of Sam Winchester’s blood. It was small, barely discernible on the lapel of his shirt, but he pressed the pad of His thumb over it and concentrated.

A dwindling hope. Despair, from the man who had lived many lifetimes in Hell, but it wasn’t the delectable succumbing blankness that he had expected, not the total and unfailing belief in his God, and it was because – it was –

_A love like that._

Dean was like cholesterol clogging an artery, preventing the natural flow of the universe. He wouldn’t let his brother fall, wouldn’t allow the end to come the way Chuck so wanted. He clenched His holy fist and half the town of Milford raptured, to screams.

Dean wouldn’t let his brother go. The traitor angel, the woman they had sentenced to die by association and all their hunter friends were an inevitability, but not Sam, and not Dean. They truly, in their heart of hearts, believed this was their story. That their petty griefs and unending losses and crushing sacrifices were survivable, because they were the heroes, they were the ones that had suffered and deserved peace. A peace that looked like retirement with their little family, finally preserved from the devastation bestowed by all the masterminds of Heaven and Hell. They would be together until the end, whatever that looked like.

But the Winchester Gospel was one of many volumes in a single tome, His, His testaments and records and deeds all wrapped up in one story. One even the Metatron would have praised. He had begun time and space and He would end it as He saw fit, and two human brothers would dance like trained monkeys as a part of that if He wanted them to, trained monkeys that stabbed or shot or beat each other to death if He so desired. They would not be permitted to choose each other over Him.

_Ye shall make you no idols nor graven image, neither rear you up a standing image, neither shall ye set up any image of stone in your land, to bow down unto it: for I am the Lord your God._

Chuck blinked Himself into a new casino, in Arizona this time. He no longer had a bullet wound, and so He ordered a Mai Tai with an optimistic smile.

There was no beginning, there was only Him. There was no free will, only His own. His children had had rebellious phases before, Chuck reasoned, sipping the fruity cocktail and grimacing at the dearth of pineapple. They always regretted it.

He didn’t wait for the servers to amend their mistake before dropping them like flies this time. He was all out of mercy.

**Author's Note:**

> *This fricken TV show has me analysing God himself to try to decipher what exactly the writers are doing. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
